


Inanimate Fixation

by PaxVobis



Series: Singles Collect [4]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: ASFR, Bondage, Deadly Hexi Kicks, Dildo Fusion, Explicit Sexual Content, Grinding, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, References To Metal, Robot Sex, Spitroasting, Tentacles, Trans Man Pickles, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 19:15:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7904419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaxVobis/pseuds/PaxVobis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pickles fucks the drum machine. PWP.</p><p>R18+ only, explicit sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inanimate Fixation

It was a dark and bad thing that he was doing, a hateful thing, a self-hating thing, to be down here with it, and Pickles knew it.  He always knew it, always fucking ignored it, let a few shots slip down his throat and watched the red lights fade away, and generally no one asked.  This was different – they would ask, if they found him huddled away in the sound booth.  But fuck it, it was their fault anyway, and he had enough bourbon to last him the rest of the afternoon.

Left for dead at this time on a Sunday morning as the rest of the band sweated off their hangovers and comedowns, Pickles stood over the drum machine in only his underwear and a foul mood, a screwdriver in one hand and the bourbon bottle by his elbow.  His reflection in its lid scowled back at him slackjawed and hooded eyed as he groped at the joins, jammed the head of the screwdriver into it and tried to pry it back.  Evil thing, fucking evil thing, he could see the red in its dead eye staring up at him in the silence of his grunts of effort, the squeak of his sweaty fingertips sliding on the black plastic.  Fucking evil thing, _you tried to kill me, you tried to kill my friends._ And yet the fuckers didn’t have a knuckle of self-preservation between them, kept the backup models in a storeroom for him to find, all those dead eyes staring at him - - - !

Fuck, it was like they were taunting him.  This said, the others probably had no idea they were even there.  It was probably a Charlie thing, a just in case Pickles kills himself thing, _well_.  That made doing himself in a moot point didn’t it??  Fucking pulled out the spines, didn’t it?  Well, he wasn’t going down so lightly this time.  They were going, he would set the whole thing on fire, he’d fucking bomb them into oblivion... as soon as he sated his curiosity.  He’d been poking around the storerooms out of paranoia, mostly, had a feeling these things were out there somewhere.  Now his fears were confirmed, he couldn’t help but be tickled by jealousy, wonder what made it so good.  As long as he defused  the self-destruct unit, what was the harm in a little tinkering?  He used to be pretty good with fuses, you know...

“Okay, okay,” he muttered under his breath as the back panel came off in his hands, squatting behind the unit and dragging up the manual again.  It had been in the bottom of the box, discarded on the floor beside him, and was probably five million pages long.  Pickles flicked through it again for a half-hearted moment and then abandoned it anyway.  It couldn’t be too hard, right?  After all, he’d gotten a good look at that fuse with the first unit.  A bit of jamming the screwdriver into the controls and it peeled away before him.  So it was just a matter of snip this and release that and... that ought to do it.

Pickles sat back on the carpet, looking the squat little machine over.  “Okay,” he said again with a drawn breath, and hit the on button. As he raised the bourbon bottle to his lips the red eye lit calmly before him, and his stomach plunged with dread. But nothing happened.  The machine just sat there, its little screen winking at him politely.  Okay then. Time to see how much he could fuck it up.

He placed the bottle on the floor definitively and mounted the machine, sitting on top of its black domed casing as he craned over the open back cavity.  He fished up the manual one more pointless time, reading the cover aloud.  

“ _X2P1158_.  You know, they never actually told me what you were called,” he mused, giving the unit a little tap with the screwdriver, and flicked through the hundred billion pages probably in the manual.  “Let’s see.   _The manual control panel, found in the back of the unit, is intended for advanced users only and_  blah blah blah.  Yeah, whatever.  Uh,  _a number of the X2P1158’s functions correspond to these inputs, see table X(1.15) below.  A26 – extendable arms_...”

Pickles rammed the screwdriver into the socket labelled A26 on the diagram, and the machine whirred between his thighs before shooting its arms out at a terrifying velocity to fold in random steel noodles on the carpet at either side of them.  Pickles started, freezing atop the device, but the arms just lay there, the two of them in perfect silence.  

“Ookay.  That was... sure,”  he mumbled, and pulled the screwdriver out.  As he did so, the arms sucked back into their holes like a vacuum cleaner aggressively swallowing its own cord.  Pickles felt a short whirr on behalf of the machine, but that was all. Silence again.  “Just... processin there, buddy?” he suggested, put firmly out of ease, and patted the carapace gently.

 _A252-262 – Polyrhythm program input_.  Pickles raised an eyebrow, looked into the control panel.  There were a number of dials, all set to zero; wiping his sweaty fingers on his underpants first, Pickles reached for one and turned it a little.  The drum machine immediately started blipping out a placated little kick drum beat from beneath him.  Authentic, too; Pickles could feel the sound through his thighs and it felt no different to a real kick. 

“Son of a bitch,” he snarled, but not without hesitance.  Secretly he was impressed, threatened, intrigued, felt for another dial and turned it.  The kick was joined by a faster tom rhythm – the more dials he turned, the more beats kicked in.  In moments he had fashioned a complex rhythm, ticking away beneath him; just the smallest turn modified it, twisted it, drew him in further.  Sure, it had none of the art, the physicality of playing a kit, but all the intellectual stimulation was there.  He poked his head over to look in the control panel, his dreads cascading heavy over his shoulders.  Jesus Christ, that was a lot of dials.  When he pushed a button beside them and turned a dial, it layered another beat on top of the other.  Like this, you could easily get to hundreds upon hundreds of beats at once.

_A666 – Hexi Kicks / Dead Sea Kicks_

Pickles raised an eyebrow.  Oh yeah, right.  Of course.  Definitely trying to replace him.  This whole set up was probably commissioned by Offdensen specifically to make him redundant; the tone was too true, too flawed in just the way he was flawed.   Spitefully he rammed the screwdriver into the socket, and the drum machine pounded beneath him – Pickles sat up suddenly, the deep, intense vibration of the hexi kicks drilling straight into his core with a deep and terrible pleasure.  As he dragged on the screwdriver, prying the socket brutally, the kick rhythm changed slightly; Pickles squirmed, giving a little sniff of confusion, irritation, curiosity.  He might hate the thing, but shit, that felt good. 

There was something filthily satisfying about forcing it to pleasure him, even accidentally.  A twisted smirk wormed its way onto his face as he rolled his hips forward on the machine’s lid, letting it make full juddering contact with his cunt through his underwear.  No, no, _shit_ , that felt amazing.  Desecrating such a beautiful machine felt amazing, ramming the screwdriver to tear into the socket, spitting on the idea that Charles or the band could ever replace him.  Pickles shoved the screwdriver deep into the hole until it was just sticking out so that he could hold onto the black plastic carapace of the machine, give it all he had, a groan slipping out despite his best efforts to keep it in.  He’d always wondered what it would be like to fuck a drum beat.  Those MP3 dildos just weren’t the same.

Chugging back another gullet full of bourbon, Pickles set to work on the dials to optimise this whole experience.  Maybe it wasn’t the catchiest beat he’d put together, but the intentions were different; no dumb ass Toki to sugar it down for, no Nathan telling him it was too flashy, too insane.  This beat was just obscene, nothing else.  A sharp drill of hexi kicks that penetrated straight through to his core, smashing cymbals, a shifting time signature that shivered over his exposed thighs, breakbeats snapping across his skin.  He could almost feel the sticks stinging on his flesh as it drove harder, a sympathetic drop of sweat smattering onto the black plastic as it fell from his brow.  By the climax of the first pattern, one hand flat on the shell, the seeking fingers of his other on the open control panel, twisting the knobs to subtle variation, he could feel it building, abandoned the art of it to just pummel his clit as he ground against the machine.  Toes curled up, biting his lip hard; and it felt so good to just spit all over their conspiracy, coming hard, his soaking crotch smeared on the clean plastic.

In the wake of the powerful wave of orgasm, Pickles perched on the machine, listening to its kicks and drills as the sweat dried cold on his skin.  He was in a kind of daze; gave the machine a playful slap on its plastic shell.  “Not bad,” he told it, and smirked when the machine let out a quiet prrrow noise of processing.  “Let’s see what else you can do.”  Pickles slid off its top, staggering slightly with numbed out crotch to retrieve the manual, and then sat before it, swigging bourbon as he toyed with the front control panel.

_Inbuilt styles are found on the front panel and are extremely flexible and reactive to a live band, including but not limited to Latin, Soul, R &B, Rock--_

“Adult Contemporary,” purred Pickles mischievously, hitting the button until the front display showed the letters.  The machine obliged, the red eye lighting before him – to monitor him as a, you know, live band, he guessed, crooking his eyebrow at it.  Man, that was some boring fucking Neil Young shit, some motherfucking [Viva La Vida](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dvgZkm1xWPE) bullshit.  Pap pap pap pap pap pap pap – he tried singing along for it, his voice sounding cracked and shrill in the empty studio.  The machine obliged further with a cowbell.  Pap pap DONG pap pap DONG pap pap DONG.  Pickles rolled his eyes and reached for the switch.  Adult contemporary was never as fun as it sounded.

“Fusion,” he read off the display, and was pleasantly surprised by the way the rhythm changed.  To be fair, he’d always had a soft spot for jazz fusion.  You couldn’t really be a professional drummer without respect for that shit; the line between jazz drumming and metal drumming was very narrow.  He tried giving it a bit of a bah-bah-bee-bah-doo scat and it followed along.  Maybe it was just the afterglow but honestly, he was finding it quite... quite endearing really.  So absorbed in its rhythms, Pickles didn’t notice one of the arms extending slowly past him, reaching for his bottle of bourbon.  The red eye stared into the black and hateful parts of his brain, held him in a kind of trance.  If he hadn’t sat up again at that moment, the arm zipping back into its shell, it would have gotten a slug of it to be sure.

“Latin fusion, huh, boring,” muttered Pickles, flicking through the settings, and then stopped short, his pierced eyebrow arching high. “... Dildo fusion?”  What the fuck was that supposed to be?  The drummer sat back and waited, looking the machine in the eye.  It just beeped and whooped at him placidly, not a single kick out of it.

“Come on,” he said, and gave it a little kick.  “What the shit is dildo fusion?”  But the robot just sat there, its eye lit up, processing him.  Pickles was the best drummer alive, no way he was letting this little plastic motherfucker get away with knowing some style he had no idea about.  It wasn’t like their scientists to equip things as a joke, but the longer he waited, sucking back bourbon and glaring at the still machine, the less he was convinced there was anything to it. Maybe there was something wrong with it.  Put upon, Pickles got to his feet and gave the machine another swift kick, knocking it onto its side. 

“Selfish little fucker.  Go to hell.  Fuckin, glorified paperweight,” he growled at it and turned away, standing to look at his reflection in the studio glass as he skimmed the manual to work out what it might be. Behind him, the robot slowly righted itself, its eye fixed on him.  Its computer was still whirring hard, measuring something, and he might have thought nothing of it if not for the shrill, weird beep of appreciation it gave.  Pickles looked over his shoulder suspiciously, the bourbon bottle still on his lips.  Did he just get wolf whistled?  Was that what that was?  By a robot?  No fucking way.

“What did you just say to me?” he snapped cheekily, knowing he was talking nonsense, grinning wicked at it.  Well, he had just used it to get off.  Playfully, he turned back to it, patting it on the plastic lid to a hollow noise as he cooed, “I’m sorry.  Oh, no, I am sorry, you got the wrong idea.  It meant nothing to me, I thought it meant nothing to you.  I’m, uh, only interested in a casual relationship right now.”

The robot whistled at him, its head lifting slightly under his hand.  Pickles pursed his lips in surprise.  It was slightly more animate than he’d thought it would be.  Curious, he peered into the exposed crack, seeing just shiny black plastic and not the long arms extending around him.  Drawing back, he knocked the robot around its lid gently, looking straight into its eye.  “I’m sorry.  I was just using you.  I thought you knew.   Oooh.”  He gave a sigh, his face dropping for a moment at the bitter joke he was playing on himself, the long arms winding around his legs, never quite touching him.  “I’m so alone.  Oh, this is so stupid.”

Then the cold steel arms constricted tight around his legs, and Pickles froze dead, staring into the red eye.  Flight or fight, the robot let out a digital coo at him.  It had gone mad and now, he was dead.  Ooh, god, served him right, letting his guard down.  Oooh, god, he was dead. 

“I - I didn’t mean that.  It was a joke.  Please don’t kill me,” he wheeked in cold terror, clinging to the bourbon bottle as the robot coiled its arms around his legs like smooth metal snakes, the main unit lifting on its tripod legs.  A flash of horrible memory, hot metal smashed across his jaw, bolted through his brain, and Pickles slowly raised the bourbon bottle for one last drink.  “To - to terrible life choices,” he mumbled, and then dropped the empty bottle entirely as a steel tendril slid cold over his crotch.

The robot shifted suddenly, lifting Pickles effortlessly from the floor.  The drummer grabbed onto its arms for balance, his brain swimming with the better part of a bottle of bourbon and lurching as all control was taken away.  But even as he clutched to steady himself, the tendrils wrapped around his arms in long, fluid loops, rippling across his whole body.  Another hatch opened on the machine with a whir, and Pickles shut his eyes tight, ready for the detonation.

But nothing came.  When he reluctantly unscrewed his eyes, he saw another arm had emerged from the bottom of the unit, poised before him like a cobra.  At its end was a glistening silver device, pointed at him, like a missile or a bullet or a...

... a gun.  Right?  It was a _fucking gun_ , the thing had a _fucking laser gun_ and he was definitely about to be vaporised something Dr Who, right?  Right?  Motherfucking, Star Trek like??  “Oh, please,” he whimpered, held frozen suspended in the air, and the silver bullet moved towards him.  As it drew closer, he was vaguely aware of a buzzing noise coming from it, something very familiar – and it was only then that it hit him, his blood suddenly surging with annoyance.

“ _A DILDO?  IT’S A DILDO??_ ” Pickles kicked in the machine’s grasp but its hold on him only tightened – never enough to hurt him, just enough to keep him still.  “THEY PUT A FUCKIN DILDO IN YOU?  Oh my god, _dildo fusion_ , oh god!  I told you it meant nothing to me!  God, this is _so stupid!_ ”

The robot just whirred and poked the dildo towards his face.  Pickles dodged it, scowling at the machine.  “Bullshit.  Bull, shit.  What, I got mine now you get yours?  Is that what this is?”

The robot gave a happy bleep, clumsily poking the dildo against Pickles’ lips.  This was some dirty shit right here, this was something Charles had let them do, put this function in.  That bastard was so dearly fucked up it astounded him sometimes.  Still, he’d probably never intended it to ever come near Pickles.  He couldn’t help but be tempted, to screw the whole thing up for him, really piss on the whole concept.  Make him recoil in such horror that he’d destroy all the machines himself.  Giving a twisted grin, Pickles looked the drum machine in the eye. 

“Okay.  Bring it on.”

Gently, cautiously, the machine prodded his mouth with the lightly buzzing dildo.  This time, Pickles let it slip between his lips, only just touching the tip of his tongue with its quivering, smooth bullet point, and he drew his mouth back along it in a soft kiss.  The second attempt was more intrusive, reaching the back of his tongue, the vibrations crawling through his skull as he gave a weird moan warped by the digital pulse and tried to suck on it.  That seemed to be what it wanted; the red eye was alive but soulless, staring up at him as its steel arms crawled sluggishly over his pale skin.  They pulled his limbs gently, turning him in the air, but he was vaguely aware he was being flipped over, his arms drawn behind his back.

It kept trying to push deeper, touching the back of his throat to a retch; Pickles pulled abruptly away, the dildo following his mouth as he moved and prodding gently for re-entry, slick with his saliva.  “Just a sec!” he snapped, trying to catch his breath, but even with that the bullet took the chance to shove in again, Pickles wrenching away even as it pushed him.  He was almost upside-down now; gave a little half-hearted struggle.  “Whatcha doin, with this whole...topsy-turvy...?  Ooh... that’s not so good.”

There were two bullets now, one significantly larger than the first.  “I cannot fit that in my mouth,” he pointed out, his dreads dropping around his ears as he was turned completely upside-down.  “Did you hear me?  That’s too big, dude.”  The robot’s eye shone back at him, whirring with concentration, and then viciously rammed his body against the sound booth wall, back first, knocking the wind out of him.  “Jesus!”  He guessed it wasn’t too late to die yet.  The KRANK emblem of the foldback amps was probably emblazoned on his back fat now.  What a way to go.

He opened his mouth to complain and had it invaded by cold steel again, giving a muffled grumble as he tried to twist away from it.  It wasn’t that he hated it, just his head spun so awfully from the booze and hell, it was just rude!  Shoving it in without asking.  Pickles twisted in its grip, wrenching free one arm to grab the dildo and pull it out of his mouth.  He tried to kick the machine off his leg too, but felt a spindly hand close over the crotch of his underwear instead, pinching the fabric.  And “Wff mm ah helff,” he managed around the gagging device.

His eyes bolted open as the machine effortlessly ripped off his damp underwear, the faded elastic snapping against his skin, his teeth shutting on the dildo to an unpleasant buzz through his skull.  Held upside-down with his legs drawn around his shoulders, he was completely exposed.  It didn’t take a genius to work out what was going to happen.  Well.  Better than trying to shove it down his throat, he guessed.

Pickles gave a dull moan and let his head drop back, the intrusion in his mouth prodding deeper as he felt the smooth, cold surface of the second dildo press against his cunt.  It had been a long time since he’d taken anything that big, but he was already pretty liquored and lubed up – just had to relax and it’d be fine.  He concentrated on sucking the bullet in his mouth, running his tongue over its tip, even though he could feel the broad point of the second missile gently pushing into him, stretching him around its girth.  God, it was so cold, and so hard, and so god damn big, his core muscles clamping on solid steel as it sunk deeper into him.  He’d heard about fuck machines, had never tried one before.  Gentler than he’d expected, but... perhaps sentience did that to you.

“Oohh, god,” he groaned as the bullet drew back over his lips again, the other finally bottoming out within him.  It had been so excruciatingly slow, so cold, weighing so heavy inside him.  A pink flush coloured his face and shoulders, as much from being held upside-down as the sex and drink.  It was all he could do not to kick as the huge intrusion started to draw out of him again.  That was it, he was being fucked by a robot.  No going back now.

He closed his eyes and let it stroke his insides, breathing deeply, the bourbon and lust pooling in his head.  He gently coaxed the dildo away from his mouth, the tender approach seeming to work better.  “Ohh... talk about... adult contemporary,” he moaned, but was interrupted by a strange bleep from the machine.  When he slowly blinked open again, his arms straining against the metal arms that held him in place, suspended in the air, he saw the robot’s front display flickering.  Glitching.  Oh... oh no, picking up his words.  The unit gurgled with blips and beeps, and the next thing he knew, a dull, muted kick was pulsing through his pelvis.

_Pap pap pap pap pap pap pap pap._

Viva La Vida.

“Oh, no!”  Pickles struggled, straining and twisting against the machine’s steel grip.  “I am not being fucked to Coldplay!  I am not being fucked _by_ Coldplay!  This is not happening, you stop that right now!”  But shit, it felt good.  When the bell finally sounded out along with it, it rang through his whole body.  “Ohhhh... stop!  I said stop.  STOP.”

Finally it stopped, and he immediately missed it, panting for breath with the dildo clutched in his white knuckles.  “I am not getting fucked in four four.  I’m a complex guy.  You gotta do better than that.”

The robot flexed, his limbs stretched to a dull, warm pain as it moved around him.  Seemed to be waiting, asking him.  “I don’t know... not Coldplay!  Um...”  It was hard to think, upside-down.  “Gimme some [Neil Peart bullshit](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uUFXFBFfqkU).  Yeah.  Make it fancy.  Impress me.”

The red light flashed gently, running a quiet roll through his body.  Nice – tickled a little.  Very little flare in this instrument, just got straight to it, subdued trills rippling through the two bullets in his cunt and hand.  The larger one seemed to be the end destination of the kicks and rim clicks while the other, quivering in his palm, channelled the higher notes, but there was a touch of every skin in both.  Pickles hummed with satisfaction as the machine span through exciting jazz fills and rhythms, pressing the more docile smaller bullet to his cheek.  Was this it?  Was this true romance?  Someone who actually understood him, and who never drank his booze? 

“Oohhh... you’re a tricky motherfucker,” he purred, stretching his legs languidly in the machine’s grip.  Neil Peart was nice, but Neil Peart was never going to make him cum.  “That was good.  That was real good.  But you’re sposed to be a metal drum machine, right?”

The robot whistled at him.

“Gimme some of [that Meshuggah shit](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dsq9gYk9q38).  The good shit, heavy on the toms,” he instructed, pointing at the machine around the dildo that pressed into his palm.  It started with the kicks, damn that Haake, drilling right into him, then came down on the toms hard.  Pickles gave a whimper and rolled his hips into it, the smaller bullet held to his lips again.  He could deal with being fucked by Tomas Haake.  But they could do better.

“Okay,” he panted, eyeing the ticking drum machine, “I’m impressed, and turned on.  Do me, uh, System Of A Down.  Vary it.  Dynamics.  It’s all about dy—ohh.”  The machine obliged as Pickles moved the smaller bullet up to his nipple, the sweat pouring down his body as the robot went to town with a heavy [I-E-A-I-A-I-O](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NIKiWvIF81g) rhythm on his cunt.

He bit his lip softly as he rolled his hips, slid the point of the bullet across his sweaty, swollen nipple.  “Now, ah, hit me with [Morbid Angel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gobRreWTyfA),” he squeaked, and the machine smashed out a death metal roll through his suspended body.  It dragged him up by his cunt muscles, locked hard on the slick dildo as it drew in and out of him again, and sweat dripped from his brow onto the tangle of steel below him.  Struggling to catch his breath, his face red with blood rushed to his head, Pickles felt ready for the hard shit.

“Okay.  Okay.  Danny Carey.  Fuck me - Danny Carey.  Skull fuck me, Danny Carey,” he gasped, the smaller dildo already drawing towards his buzzing mouth as the death metal dropped away to a complex, [parabolic polyrhythm](https://youtu.be/EElaqhquY00?t=4m).  It held him suspended, in awe of the maths that danced in the back of his mind and vibrated through the back of his throat – like he was so fluent, like he could think in maths, effortless, beautiful shapes and fractals, acid trip divine – before the fills shocked through him to a shrill whine gagged, his body twisting where he was held, the sting of sticks phantom across his bare thighs and chest.  Motherfucking Danny Carey.  If he had let himself, he could have cum to Danny Carey.  But it still wasn’t enough.

An awful, hateful, divine thought struck him, and Pickles ripped the dildo out of his mouth.  “ _ZACH HILL_ ,” he yelled, his body winding with lust, “YOU GOTTA... CAN YOU DO THAT, YOU ROBOT... MOTHERFUCKER... CAN YOU?? ZACH HILL??  ZACH HILL.”

It did [it.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=thKENDv0Zuk)

“No, oh no...”  Pickles quivered, his toes curling.  “No fucking filter, _no fucking filter_... FUCK.”  His hand shot up, thrusting the smaller bullet against his erect clit as the other slammed to his core again.  His muscles strained as he tried to hold it there, slipping in his sweaty palm, his tongue feeling fat in his mouth.  Fucking Zack Hill.  Zack Hill could get it.  Ohh, no.

Pickles gritted his teeth, wheezing as he held himself back from the drilling pain of the heavy kick slammed against his cervix, his face screwed up.  He was sure he’d never been this wet before, was sure it was dripping down his chest, but he was coated in such a thick, salty sweat he had no way of telling.  He knew exactly where he was taking it from here.

“Abe Cunningham,” he hissed through his teeth, his lips pulled back pink across his gums as he twisted his neck.  “Deftones... Deftones... gimme some of that simple bullshit, Korea, [My Own Summer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U2BVR6D0dx4), simple shit, real heavy-like.  Artful.  Oh god.”  He almost swallowed his own tongue.  That was a hot beat, that was an insane beat, insane art to it, the smaller bullet rubbed into his clit with his drenched palm as he squirmed around the silver missile.  Felt like he was being split down the middle, like he was at the edge of the ravine, his head spinning, swimming, drowning.  Almost.  So close.  God, okay, he was ready. He had considered asking it to do him, you know, do himself, but he didn't need the heartbreak. Next best thing.

“Gene Hoglan, Testament,” he gasped, turning his big, pleading eyes up to the drum machine, “And if you fuck this up, I’ll kill you; I’ll take you apart and I'll piss on each part one by one. I'll shove each bit into my cunt and then I'll squeeze you out and piss on you.  On the count of three.  Three.  Two.”  He swallowed, his throat dry and swollen.  “One.”  And in a desperate whisper: [“ _Fire._ ”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qZX62imOapU)

Pickles’ eyes opened wide, facing the true horror of what he’d requested as the kicks drilled straight through the back of his cunt and into his soul.  He felt nauseous as the deadly hexi kicks ripped through him, through each organ in him, organs he hadn’t even known existed, the nails of his free hand raked down his sweat drenched chest as the machine pounded at his clit with the other bullet.  “Oh god.  Oh god, no,” he whimpered, feeling his insides knot over one another.  His life flashed before his eyes, every regrettable back alley blowjob, every drunken threesome, and then popped in his head like a balloon full of blood as his body seized up in the drum machine’s clutches, bucked and terrible.

In the dreadful stillness that followed, the drums still pounding inside him, Pickles’ heart thudded in his ears, the sweat running in cold, oily rivulets down his chest and neck.  A clarity descended over him, like glacial spring water, his lungs bursting from fighting for breath.  With a great sigh, his body went limp in the machine’s clutches, aching, heavy.  “ _Brutal_ ,” he breathed, throaty with bliss.

 

* * * * *

**EPILOGUE**

The studio was the last place Charles had expected to find any of the boys on their day off, but – having scoured every other inch of Mordhaus and been advised the drummer hadn’t left – he supposed weirder things had happened.  Certainly to Pickles; it wasn’t beyond the imagination that he might decide to practice, feeling invalid or unstable, beating out some of his rotting anger.

When he couldn’t see him at first, Charles assumed he had passed out in the sound booth, crossing the room and hitting the talkback mic on the soundboard, still active from someone neglecting to turn it off.  Maybe months ago, he didn’t know.  “Pickles, are you in there?” he asked carefully, and heard a groan.  Slowly, the drummer emerged, his head popping up at the bottom of the window, his dreads in sweaty disarray.  _Oh, fuck_ , said his voice from within the booth, Pickles collapsing out of sight again, and Charles took that as an invite to go over and open the door on him.

That turned out to be a mistake.

“Pickles, we’ve had a security breach, someone’s lifted a unit from the weaponry facility.  I need you upstairs now,” he droned blindly, opening the door on the booth to the smell of cigarette smoke and sweat, “I tried calling you but—”  And he stopped short, confronted by the nude Pickles grinning bashfully and covering his crotch with a bourbon bottle, cigarette in one hand, leaning on the stolen and obviously sullied device, an ashtray balanced on its lid. 

“Ah,” said Charles.

“It’s okay, Charlie,” said Pickles, “I think I’ve, uhhh, neutralised the situation.”  The dirty smirk on his face told the manager everything he needed to know.

“Right.  You - - you know, whatever.”  Charles slowly closed the door, and obviously Pickles couldn’t help himself, crowing out after him with a sick glee:

“Next model, get it something it can stick in your butthole too!  I just, I felt like that was missing - -”

Charles slammed the door.  That was the last straw.  He was definitely having those units destroyed, once and for all.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments greatly appreciated.


End file.
